


Green Man

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [4]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Cannibalism, Cultists, Gore, Incest, Other, a bite, just a bit, ritualistic-ish sacrifice, smth that is clearly borrowed from Doceo_Percepto's bendy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 23:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: The Joxter gets into trouble, then gets out of it again. Snufkin just gets into trouble.





	Green Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Visit to the Zoo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155578) by [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto). 



> This story needed a beast, and Doceo_Percepto happened to have a v good one on hand. But as I don't know much about BatIM, he is similar to but not actually the character. We're just like an inspiration ouroboros.

The Joxter tended to piss people off. They wanted him, wanted to be him, and all he ever did was not care about them in return. He suspected, at least in part, that that was to blame for his current predicament. Some man had approached him as he slept in his apple tree a short while ago, and the Joxter _might_ have laughed at his religious spiel before going back to sleep.

He twisted his wrists behind him, trying to loosen the knot, but the rope was rough and tight, and he could feel a burning itch where it had chafed his skin raw. All around him were people in masks carrying flickering torches that only served to turn the night into some reddish, shadowed hellscape. If he were prone to things like fear, the Joxter might be afraid. It was all very atmospheric and intense, and, he suspected, about to lead to murder. There were some bones around their altar to suggest this wasn’t their first dance.

“Excuse me,” he said to one of the figures guarding him. “What are you doing?”

They turned their dark face toward him, the mask a network of vines and hollows. The Joxter couldn’t quite see their eyes. “You will be sacrificed to the Green Man.”

“And who’s that?”

“God.”

The Joxter snorted. He'd met men like that before, who called themselves gods and prophets, but despite his usual abrasive nature, he knew when to share his stories and when to not. Now was the time to not, so he asked, instead, “Why are you sacrificing _me_ to him? I try to not be worth much at all to anyone.”

“You’re one of his wayward children returning to the fold. Nature has called to you to sustain it, and it shall sustain us.”

The Joxter overbalanced as he continued trying to get loose, and rolled over, spitting leaves off of his face. They’d done admirably tying him up, usually ropes didn’t give him this much trouble. And he was beginning to feel a slight tickle in his whiskers that he wouldn’t get out in time. “I am a civilized Joxter, thank you. I live in apple trees grown by others, or sleep in haylofts, not fie--” he cut himself off.

The figure made an inquiring sort of noise.

“Maybe I was called for something else,” he said thoughtfully, rousing himself to higher thoughts than just stirring up trouble now that trouble had come to him. “I know a person a nature god would be lucky to have.”

“You claim to know our god better than us?”

The Joxter shook his head quickly, the sell coming easily now that he'd begun.  “Not at all, but I know someone you can't know because you would never be able to find him. He loves nature more than anything.”

The figure turned a little, and the Joxter knew he'd caught his interest.

“He's the prettiest little Snufkin, with big, brown eyes and a gentle, wild look about him.  Like a bunny, or a mouse, or some other sweet little prey animal.” The Joxter's eyes turned distant, as though he was watching Snufkin right now, secret voyeur to his solitary life. “He makes songs, you know, out of what sounds nature gives him and loves the wild in all its horribleness and beauty. They say that spring doesn't arrive until he does, and he takes summer with him when he leaves…..”

He trailed off, imagining Snufkin as a small, green animal walking the late summer trails of Moominvalley, caressed by cold, grey tendrils of fog. He wondered if Snufkin avoided others because they were so much more dangerous to him than the wild.  The Joxter had no problem admitting he enjoyed his son in ways wholly inappropriate to a father, and though he had never acted on it, he was sure Snufkin had a suspicion. He'd not said as much, but Snufkin had certainly not wanted the Joxter around after finally meeting him, curling into himself and becoming distant once more. Which was a shame, because the Joxter would have liked to have stayed around, especially hearing others talk of Snufkin.

“He's all the sweetness nature had to offer, and has wandered the world soaking it in, wrapping himself up in stories and songs.” He sat back on his heels, giving his arms a rest. “Or you could sacrifice a lazy drifter pickled in apple wine and rum.”

The figure was silent, then moved away and disappeared into a collective of others. The Joxter watched the cult murmur and discuss with calm, blue eyes. People were too easy, sometimes. Especially the sorts who joined nonsense like this.

When a figure came back -- the Joxter neither knew nor cared if it was the same one from before -- the Joxter settled back to await the verdict. “Where is this Snufkin?”

“I'll show you, but not for nothing.”

“If you deliver, you will be set free and left alone.”

The Joxter smiled as his bindings were quickly removed. “Hup, pff. Then let's get going.”

* * *

Unlike Snufkin, the Joxter wasn’t prone to travel. He found a place or person he liked and settled in until it stopped being a place or person he liked. He quite liked the Mymble and her apple tree, still, so wanted to stay there unmolested by idiots or gods.

But, if required, he knew how to find what he wanted, especially if that something was a Snufkin.  He’d met a few over the years, and they were all similar enough. The cultists had sent two of their own along with him, and they looked very normal when not dressed in bloody torchlight, though they kept their masks on (there were enough odd people out there that it wasn't any odder). Not that he wanted the company. It made the Joxter feel rushed, and he never liked to rush anything.

He swatted one of the cultists as they crested the mountain leading into Moominvalley, bringing them to a halt. “We need to be careful now,” he said, scenting the air, whiskers twitching. There was a taste of salt, and white caps laced the distant ocean. “I think it's a brook fishing sort of day,” he decided.  The Joxter cut off from the path, into the woods, and began following the sound of rushing water. He traced a meandering path only he could see, not caring if the others could keep up.

Soon enough, he saw a flick of an orange feather in all the green and lowered himself to a crawl. Snufkin was napping, head buried in his arms, the fishing rod braced between his legs. The Joxter moved closer.

Snufkin's face was hidden by his hat. The Joxter crouched on the sun-warmed stone just beside Snufkin and propped his head in his hand, watching the play of water light on the underside of his hat brim, the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. Curled up like this, he looked like one of those little balls of moss that grew in cold water and rolled wherever the current took them. The Joxter heard shifting in the woods of larger, cultist-shaped things, then reached out and poked Snufkin.

Snufkin woke up slowly, himself never in any hurry. He checked his rod, then tilted his head and rested it on his knee to blink lazily at the Joxter. Though they were, ultimately, more different than alike, Snufkin certainly inherited something from his father. He made a noise that was almost a question.

“Play us a song, dear.”

Snufkin gave him a look, then turned his attention back to the water, relegating the Joxter to the ignored.

The Joxter got his pipe alight, then shunted himself right up beside Snufkin and tossed an arm around his shoulders. Snufkin tensed. Others tended to view him as wise, aloof, and therefore untouchable, but the Joxter held no such notions or personal barriers.

“I thought you enjoyed playing on your harmonica?”

“When I want to,” Snufkin said.

“Why not now?” The Joxter's question was accompanied by a plume of smoke.

Snufkin shrugged moodily, hoping the Joxter world take the hint and remove his arm. He didn't,  so Snufkin sighed and reached into his pocket. He uncurled and settled properly to play, then brought it to his lips, thinking on what song would best suit this situation other than a collection of discordant noises. He hadn’t liked when they first met, how all his songs and thoughts turned to a fraught jumble, though he wanted so badly to… to something. To please the Joxter, let him know how similar they were, until it turned out they weren’t. He had been sad when the Joxter left so abruptly, but had moved on.

He didn't want to share Moomin’s and his song, ‘All small creatures should wear bows in their tails’, so settled on some half song mimicking the water rushing before them, the leaves rustling above. The Joxter took his arm off of Snufkin and closed his eyes to listen, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe.

He hoped the cultists were listening too. If this didn't convince them Snufkin was a perfect match, they were probably deaf or dead inside. The Joxter wasn't inclined to music, himself, but Snufkin could do things with songs that he’d never heard anyone else do -- nothing lofty and intimidating like great composers, but comfortable and small, like creating a special moment of time just for you and him.

Snufkin’s song ended, and a quiet fell that was filled soon with the sounds of nature that had paused to listen, too. The Joxter blew smoke rings that faded into nothingness until his tobacco burned down, then leaned in close to Snufkin.

“Would you like to help your pappa?”

“No.”

The Joxter pulled away, slightly taken aback by the quick, firm response. “What?”

“Whatever trouble you got yourself into, I’m sure you don’t need me to get you out of it.”

“Hah! Why ever would you think I'm in trouble?”

“You're a Joxter away from home.”

“That is a fair point, my dear.” The Joxter climbed to his feet and patted off his coat, then pocketed his pipe. Snufkin absolutely suspected something about him. “You Snufkins are so clever. Would you like to know what trouble I'm in?”

Snufkin visibly chewed this offer over, before giving the slightest of nods. He would catch no fish now, so began to pack in his fishing gear as he listened to the Joxter.

“Cultists,” the Joxter said.

“Cultists?”

“They want to sacrifice me to some forest god or another.”

“How dreadful. Why would they think you'd be a good sacrifice?”

The Joxter laughed and caught Snufkin's bucket, taking it and the fishing pole from him. “That's what I told them! Are you going back to Moominvalley? Down that way?” He pointed and hoped the others were watching.

Snufkin nodded, looking like he wanted to grab his bucket and pole back (because he did), but the Joxter marched on, leaving him to follow in his wake.

“I told them there were far better sacrifices than me, and I could even find one,” the Joxter continued, long stride forcing Snufkin to jog a little. Snufkin made an inquisitive noise. “Someone pretty, someone in tune with nature, someone small and quiet and just a little slow on the uptake” The Joxter smiled at Snufkin, who barely realized what he was insinuating before the Joxter hit him upside the head with the bucket.

Snufkin stumbled into a tree with a sharp cry, and the Joxter leaped at him and slammed him into it again before they both toppled to the ground. The Joxter rolled off of Snufkin as feet and cloaks swirled around, and he sat up with a yawn. This was far more activity than he was designed for, so the Joxter let the others handle Snufkin – or not, it didn't really matter to him, anymore. He climbed to his feet and watched them lasso Snufkin's flailing limbs, gag him with his own scarf.

Snufkin really was a fun little thing, wide-eyed and chest fluttering as he tried to breathe while he was hoisted over one of the cultist's broad shoulders. He kicked and hit and shrieked underneath his gag, but was in no position to do any damage. The Joxter tossed Snufkin's things in the bushes and grabbed his hat, then followed along behind the man holding Snufkin.

“Your part's done,” the other cultist said.

“I know. I just want to watch. He is very pretty, isn't he?”

Snufkin stilled once he realized they were talking, and his eyes were locked on the Joxter's. His expression went through a few emotions -- confusion, betrayal, sadness -- before settling on anger. The Joxter reached forward and bumped his nose with one finger. Snufkin wrinkled it up and huffed like he was trying to dislodge a spider.

“He's acceptable.”

The Joxter didn’t take his eyes off of Snufkin. “He comes from very good genes, you know, a lovely Mymble, all soft and sweet and round.”

“He’s not very round or soft.” Sweet was left off the list, because it was very easy to see he was sweet, no matter how angry he was right now.

“Of course not, he takes after me, mostly. But the best parts come from his mother.”

“This is your son.”

“Yes.”

There was nothing to be said to that, so they lapsed into silence. Snufkin didn’t resume his struggle, knowing it was futile until he was put down. He needed to save his energy.

They kept up a consistent, steady pace, which the Joxter didn’t like at all so he roamed and returned and rested. Snufkin thought he’d abandoned him toward evening, but several hours after his captors had set up camp, tied him to a tree with his wrists pressed between his back and the bark, and fallen asleep, the Joxter slunk out of the shadows up to Snufkin.

He pulled Snufkin’s scarf out of his mouth. It was wet and cold with spit, and Snufkin’s mouth ached, and his throat was parched. He didn’t feel like talking to the Joxter, anyway.

Until the Joxter loosened the rope holding him to the tree, and Snufkin fell against him with a grunt. His hands were still tied, but this was an improvement from before. The Joxter tilted something into his mouth that Snufkin at first thought was water so easily accepted, before it burned down his throat and sent him coughing. He thought he was going to choke when the Joxter covered his mouth, but soon it was under control. When Snufkin tried to talk, the Joxter replaced his glove with his mouth, enjoying the flavor since it seemed Snufkin didn’t drink.

Snufkin made a muffled distressed noise as the Joxter’s tongue explored, weird and warm and smoke-bitter. What was the Joxter _doing_?

“Shush, dear,” the Joxter murmured against Snufkin. “Let’s not wake your friends.”

“ _Your_ friends,” Snufkin hissed.

The Joxter’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, and Snufkin felt it as he pressed against him. “They captured me too. I just needed something to get them to let me go.”

“So you were just… pretending? About giving me to them?” The side of his head still hurt a lot for pretending _,_ but he didn’t know the Joxter well. Maybe he just played rough.

“Of course. I’ll let you loose, but first, let me enjoy you. I’ll help if you let me do that.” Snufkin stared flatly at him, so the Joxter continued. “You know things in life aren’t free, and I’ve wanted you ever since I first saw you.”

“I’m your son.”

“People keep saying that like it means something. It just makes it more exciting.”

“I’ve never --”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“I don’t want --”

“But I do, and you’re in no position to argue. In a few day’s time, you’ll be their --” the Joxter tossed his head toward the others. “Plaything. And there are at least a dozen of them, but there’s only one me.”

Snufkin breathed fast through his nose at the implications. A gang rape days from now, if he couldn’t get out, or a single rape tonight. These were things he’d never wanted to consider, ever. Things nobody should ever have to consider. The Joxter had wanted to do this since they’d first met? He’d only had thoughts for meeting someone he’d admired, and it hurt to think the Joxter’s affection, brief and awkward as it had been, had an ulterior motive. But he didn’t think he could survive more than one person. He shuddered at the notion.

Snufkin pulled at his bound hands, then gave a resigned nod. If he said no, the Joxter could just as easily make it impossible for him to get loose. The Joxter smiled, teeth white in the dark, and made quick work of Snufkin’s boots and pants. Soon he was seated inside, murmuring how pleasant Snufkin was as Snufkin tried not to cry too loudly.

The Joxter fell asleep on him once he’d finished, and no matter how Snufkin wriggled or whispered, wouldn’t wake up. Snufkin refused to believe he wouldn’t help him. He’d done what he wanted. The Joxter had been gentle, but not careful, and he was thick and deep in him still. It made Snufkin’s skin crawl, like the Groke was somewhere nearby, and he felt sick. There was still time, if the Joxter would just _get up_.

The cultists awoke to Snufkin staring blankly at the canopy above, tear tracks dried on his face, everything aching but especially his heart. Snufkin knew that things in life happened with very little rhyme or reason, but he _wanted_ a reason to latch onto right about now, some semblance of fairness that didn’t exist in the world. The arbitrariness made it hard to think of anything except what would happen now. He wondered if Moomin noticed his absence yet, or had simply chalked it up to his usual ways. He’d realize eventually, because Snufkin knew bad people rarely got their comeuppance, and a lot more people died pointlessly than survived.

The Joxter slept framed by Snufkin’s legs, which were pale and prickled with gooseflesh. When the Joxter woke up, the men turned away and pretended not to hear the quiet, fleshy slapping or Snufkin’s jumping breath.

Snufkin was more subdued after that, and nobody gagged him. He would have walked, but they couldn’t find where the Joxter had thrown his boots, so he was carried again. They lost the Joxter sometime before noon, and Snufkin bitterly wished that he never saw him again.

“The Green Man has no interest in such things,” one of the cultists said, as though that would comfort Snufkin.

“But you do, I suppose.” Snufkin had been waiting for this. He’d be like stone. He’d think nothing and feel nothing.

“We want what the Green Man wants.”

“You --” Snufkin cut himself off. Of course, the Joxter had lied about that, too. Snufkin hated the time he’d wasted admiring such a person, and how easily he’d fallen for his words. “Why does your god want me?” he asked instead.

“They want to return you to the fold or some nonsense,” the Joxter said right beside Snufkin. Snufkin tensed.

“Why are you still following us?” the other cultist said, and Snufkin at least took comfort in the fact that he had pulled the Joxter’s attention away.

“I want to see this green fellow.” He was almost cut off with a refusal, but waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not my fault your secret little club is bad at keeping secrets.”

* * *

I don’t think there is a god,” the Joxter told Snufkin the next night.

“I don’t care what you think.”

“That’s good, because I have lots of thoughts you’d not like if you cared.” His gaze drifted lazily over Snufkin, who rolled over and curled up. Though they didn’t seem to approve, the others also didn’t seem to care either that the Joxter was still there, still tormenting and touching Snufkin.

“They’ll tie you up on their altar, their god won’t come, and you can go home. Everyone winds up a little disappointed. Maybe I’ll come visit you.”

Snufkin focused on the rope around his wrists, twisting until his skin was raw. Though he said he didn’t care what the Joxter thought, he couldn’t stop hearing what he said. That sounded too easy. He was fairly certain sacrifices were killed not let go. The Joxter was useless, and Snufkin was running out of time.

The rope loosened a little. Snufkin’s breath caught. Now if he could just --

“Oh, it came a bit undone,” the Joxter said, and the rope was drawn tight again. He kissed Snufkin’s temple. “There you go, dear.”

Snufkin spent the last night of their trip with his scarf shoved back into his mouth. Come morning the bite he’d given the Joxter had turned into a ringed mass of bruising on his cheek.

* * *

There was no pageantry to Snufkin’s arrival at the altar. The Joxter had dropped back further and further, until he was in the trees around the site. It was a sunny day, the leaves here only just becoming tinged with yellows. The skulls of other sacrifices had grass and weeds blooming in their sockets and out of cracks in their domes. Snufkin watched a bee buzz happily from one to another from where he’d been set next to the altar, the stone cold against his back. Dozens of eyes were locked onto him.

It didn’t matter if there really was a god or not, he was going to die. The idea rested numb but heavy inside of him. He didn’t think of Moomin, or the Joxter, or everything he’d miss. He didn’t think much of anything at all.

He didn’t know why he was crying again, but it was silent and unobtrusive, just tears dripping down his face making it hard to see the swaying grass.

The ropes were cut, finally, and his wrists were wrapped in salve and white bandages. Pointlessly, but ritual was never something Snufkin understood anyway. They changed his coat out for a white, thin thing that the sunlight passed right through, and left him sitting alone on the altar.

Nothing was explained to him about when or how or even why, but he supposed he was just some prop in their silly game, not a living, thinking person. He didn’t feel like a person right about now, either.

The Joxter climbed up next to him and put his hat on his head. “Do you want to fuck on their altar? …. No, I suppose not.” He lapsed into quiet for a moment, then, “They’re all off preparing. I guess we’re a little behind schedule. You could still run. I won’t say a word.” Snufkin just sat there, disappointing the Joxter just a smidgen. He hadn’t been through all that much at all, and he already seemed like he’d given up. “Go on, shoo. Run off.”

“Do you hate me?”

“Do I -- no, of course not. Why would you think that?”

Snufkin squinted at him. “You sold me out to be sacrificed and lied to me and…. Did things to me.”

“It’s okay, you can say rape. I know what I was doing, which was why it was so much fun. But I don’t hate you. It’s all just a matter of convenience.” The Joxter rarely felt the need to explain himself to anyone, but Snufkin was similar enough that he was sure he’d understand. “I actually do like you quite a lot, but you’re useless to me if you don’t like me back.”

“I did like you, though,” Snufkin said, looking at his bandaged wrists. He was convenient. That was all.

“Oh. Hm.” The Joxter mulled over this information. “Is there a chance of you liking me again in the future?”

“No.”

The Joxter kissed him, unbothered by the lack of reciprocation, then climbed off the altar and left Snufkin alone again. Snufkin knew he should run. The sun was cresting the treetops, and though the Joxter had lied before, he felt he hadn’t lied now. He was alone. He wanted to be even more alone.

Snufkin stood on shaky legs and took a moment to scent the air, listen, and orient himself. He ran into the lengthening shadows of the forest.

* * *

The night blossomed bright with a full moon and clear skies. The trees whispered and rustled, and night animals skittered. Snufkin felt safer already, surrounded by the familiar sounds and scents. The ground was cold beneath his bare feet, but alive. That was all that mattered.

He slowed, finally accepting that there were no sounds of pursuit behind him, and then stopped, a hand to his heart, the other braced on a tree. All this and they weren’t even following him. A relieved laugh fell from his lips, and it soon devolved into more crying, mixed with little hiccoughs, the feelings he couldn’t process before finally washing over him. He’d been so afraid.

But here, he didn’t feel afraid, or dirty, or anything like that. Those were the problems of people, and Snufkin was in the wild again, where he belonged.

He wiped his eyes and climbed again to his feet. He wouldn’t go back to Moominvalley right away, just in case.

Snufkin walked on a little longer, then found a tree with a large hollow where its trunk split into roots. He crawled in on hands and knees, curled up against the chill, and closed his eyes.

Something tangled in his hair and yanked him out of his hollow, then threw him on the ground. “Wh--” Snufkin’s words died in his throat as something large, thin, and black crouched down in front of him, as though the shadows had disengaged from their trees and come to life. A grin white as bone filled his vision, and something black splattered on his clothing. It was covered in debris from the forest, leaves, sticks, rocks, and moss.

Snufkin couldn’t tell what it was, but he didn’t need to identify it to know that its claws were large and sharp, and its attention was fixated on him. Suddenly he knew with painful certainty what every rabbit, squirrel, and Creep always knew: what it was like to be prey.

He scrambled in the leaves, stumbled away from the creature. Claws caught at the edge of the robe, tore through it like paper, then the thing leaped at him.

Snufkin hit a tree face first, and long, wet fingers wrapped around his head and slammed him against it again, and again. Blood flooded his mouth, dripped down the back of his throat, blinded him. He scratched at the tree, bark peeling loose underneath his fingers as he tried to find purchase.

The thing threw him aside, and disappeared again. Snufkin lay there, blood bubbling at his lips, eyes unfocused, mind failing to put together everything that had just happened. It had taken only seconds.

He got unsteadily to hands and knees and squinted into the dark forest. The thing had left black marks of ooze ahead of him, so Snufkin… Snufkin needed to go the other way.

His movements were swaying and stumbling, and everywhere Snufkin saw that black substance, he’d change direction and hope it led away. Whatever that had been it had scared him more than those cultists, more than the Joxter’s actions. This thing was unnatural in the worst way, like a nightmare dragged to the waking world, awakening some visceral level of existential horror Snufkin had never felt before. The world lurched, and it wasn’t solely due to his injuries.

Snufkin heard voices, some frightened, others angry, and stopped. He was completely disoriented, and probably needed medical attention, but people couldn’t be trusted. He’d manage on his own, he decided, and stepped away from the sounds.

The thing landed on the ground with a heavy, moist thud right in front of him, and Snufkin barely got a scream out before it tossed him up into the air. His ascent was arrested by a tree branch that knocked him back to the ground, only for him to be chucked away this time, into a clearing.

He hit the altar and something snapped as he bounced off. All talking stopped. It took Snufkin a moment to realize he was right where he started. The Joxter was on the altar, holding off a person armed with lengths of rope. One of the cultists was cradling a bloody nose and others were grabbing for his wrists.

“Snufkin!” the Joxter said happily, using everyone’s confusion to slip off of the altar. “What a pleasant surprise! My poor dear, what happened to your fa...ce...”

His words trailed off as the thing stepped through the trees to the clearing. The sight of it spurred the cultists into action, and the Joxter took his cue from them to get away, leaving Snufkin all alone, crumpled up like a piece of used tissue paper.

The creature was hypnotic to watch move, dropping fluidly to all fours and stalking slowly to Snufkin as though moving through water, not air. Snufkin pushed himself upright, one hand clasping his broken arm. The wind had been knocked from him from the throw, and he couldn’t get his mouth to work quite right as he desperately tried to plead for help.

All around the Joxter, the cultists dropped down and looked steadfastly at the ground. The Joxter though, he watched, enthralled. He had been very, very wrong about there being no god.

“Not really green nor a man, is it?” he asked, though nobody responded if they even heard him. Calling it a man did the creature a great disservice. It was brutal and animalistic, but like nothing the Joxter had ever seen before. It made him breathless just being in its presence.

It let Snufkin crawl to his feet, drag himself over the altar away from it, before it slammed its paw down on him, pinning him to the stone. The Joxter recognized those movements, the actions of a cat playing with its prey. The thing braced itself against the altar as it wrenched Snufkin’s head back and did something the Joxter would either describe as kissing or chewing on his face. Whatever it was it sounded moist _._

Snufkin tried not to gag as his head was forced back and his vision filled with that vile, viscous ooze. A tongue slithered between his lips and pushed its way between his teeth, and soon he was gagging on the fluid as it poured into his mouth and teeth dug lightly into his cheeks. If it had wanted to, it could have easily bitten off his head.

The thing pulled back, and Snufkin rolled onto his side. He heaved over the edge of the altar, stomach clenching painfully until the black stuff dripped out in thinner and thinner strands, and he fell to his back. He glanced up, eyes watering, the stuff still thick in his mouth and throat. The Joxter stood there, only feet away, as though he’d crept closer and closer while Snufkin was attacked.

“H-help me,” he whispered, each syllable agony to force out. The creature got every limb upon the altar, straddling Snufkin, not attacking quite yet. Studying him. “Help me, Joxter!” he cried, attention snapping back to the thing as it raked its claws down his belly and pain bloomed hot and red.

The Joxter could only stare, mouth a little agape, as Snufkin’s pleas turned to wordless, gagging screams, and more blood gushed and stained his clothes. Snapping followed as Snufkin tried to push the thing off and it simply bent his wrists like twigs, then his arms. It was calculated and cold, but somehow entirely feral.

The Joxter had once, as a child, seen a man killed by a boar. The man had gone hunting for it armed only with a gun and his ego. Taken by curiosity, the Joxter had gone after him. He was armed with nothing but a keen flight sense because only an idiot would take on a boar.

He’d found signs of their fight after it had ended, blood and gashes in the dirt and in the trees. Then he found the man. He had been gored and trampled, and his innards heaved out in one direction like mud pulsing out of a hole, still warm but attracting flies already. His head had been split open by a wayward tusk, it looked, and one eye dangled out, staring grotesquely at the Joxter with its milky pupil, as his brains lay in chunks all around. The Joxter should have been horrified by the scene, so young and unfamiliar with trauma, but he’d simply been intrigued. He could piece together what had happened, and literally piece together the remains, but knew intrinsically that that was only the aftermath of a short, vicious story.

He never found the boar, which probably went on with its life only slightly encumbered by the bullets embedded in its tough hide. The Joxter had returned to his family’s camp aching to know what the man had thought and felt as he was mangled, what he looked like struggling to live.

It was surprisingly satisfying to _see_ it happen, titillating even. The Green Man had torn Snufkin from sternum to groin, and his guts spilled out so prettily, like strings of pearls from a bag, in all the fleshy purples and pinks they could come in. He was somehow screaming still, the sound bubbling through blood and whatever had filled his lungs.

The thing’s lampblack head disappeared into the gore, teeth snicking sharp as scissors as it bit and swallowed down pieces indiscriminately. The Joxter crept closer. Snufkin’s eyes were riveted on him, white and wide in a smear of blood and tarry muck. The Joxter thought sleeping with Snufkin would cool the yearning in his belly, but while it had been uniquely pleasant as Snufkin was the only child he had, it was nothing compared to the rush of Snufkin being eviscerated. This was so much more intense than life usually was, all colors that were so rare to see -- whites and reds and blacks -- instead of green upon green, and every moment was long, agonizing, and amazing. Snufkin was more alive and real to the Joxter at this moment than he’d ever been before.

“I love you,” the Joxter mouthed to Snufkin, hoping it was some consolation after thinking the Joxter hated him. He could never hate something so lovely, though.

As though hearing his words, the Green Man’s claws curled around Snufkin’s face. It lifted his head, then brought it down sharply on the edge of the altar, over and over, until Snufkin’s screaming turned to pathetic wheezing, like a fish on land, and the crack of bone become a wet, sucking smack. One eye seemed to have disconnected and wandered away to stare at nothing.

The Green Man reared back, considering its handiwork alongside the Joxter. Snufkin was still in one piece, roughly, but unraveling quickly. It took his leg in its hands and easily, easier than tearing a leaf, ripped him apart at the knee. Something popped. Snufkin’s body jolted, as did the Joxter’s at the idea that he could still feel that.

He wanted to feel Snufkin shuddering against him, but wasn’t stupid enough to even think of intruding on the Green Man’s feast. It, like a boar, was much bigger, stronger, and meaner than a Joxter. It ate the torn piece with quick, crunching bites, then bit into Snufkin’s thigh, tore away a chunk with a spray of blood that speckled the Joxter’s face. Now all of its movements were geared toward digging and feeding.

The Joxter watched several moments longer, the heart-jumping excitement giving way to a more realistic view of what he was seeing as it ate. While this was certainly something real, it wasn’t any sort of deity. The world was full of the fascinating and the bizarre, and though he didn’t know exactly what this creature was, it was as much a god as the Groke. There was a deliberateness to the Green Man’s actions that suggested intellect, if an impatient one, but it didn’t care one whit about its audience. It was just some mortal being following mortal desires. Food, fun. These were things the Joxter understood well.

And then it was done.

The Green Man considered the Joxter, weighed in its mind if he was worth the effort to drag over and eat as well. If it decided to, he was okay having seen such a delightful sight, but he would rather not die. He couldn’t find eyes to connect with, in the dripping mess of its face, but it seemed he didn’t have to worry. The Green Man climbed down from atop Snufkin and righted itself onto its hind legs before disappearing into the forest, walking in a lurching parody of men, more leaves sticking to its black, drippy body. Snufkin draped half-off the altar like some gothic maiden, body ripped almost in two, limbs twisted and mangled, his white robe pure red now. The poor dear’s face had been slashed to the point of unrecognizable, and his small, thin throat was a blackened hole teasing at the white of his spine. The Green Man had been very careful not to damage that.

The Joxter took a step back and realized his legs were a little wobbly. Death had stalked so closely, and it had been awful in all senses of the word. He licked his lips, tasted Snufkin’s blood, then turned and quickly walked several feet into the woods opposite where the Green Man had gone. He needed a smoke.

* * *

He returned to the glade later, lured by the smell of food. The Joxter had quite forgotten that this was supposed to be some ritual or another that went on after Snufkin’s death, and now that they’d gotten their sacrifice, he doubted he’d be troubled much if he tried to snatch some tidbits here or there.

Snufkin was no longer on the altar, though his blood was browning and staining the stone still. The Joxter didn’t bother to find what they did with him, instead casting about for the smell of something roasting. He mostly lived on fruits and vegetables, things that require no preparation, but if someone else was cooking, the Joxter didn’t mind indulging.

“Hello, again,” he said, inviting himself to sit beside one of the cultists tending the fire. “What’s all this for?”

“Celebration. We’ll be sustained for another year.”

“I do love when a ritualistic murder goes right,” the Joxter agreed amiably, though prior to today he had had no opinion either way. He helped himself to one of the spits by the fire. The meat was juicy and seared just right, and it had a sweetness and earthiness to it that reminded the Joxter of carrots or some other vegetable. Certainly unlike any other meat he’d tasted. “Oh, this is quite good! What is it?”

The cultist pointed at the altar. The Joxter looked at the rest of the meat on its skewer, then slowly lifted it to his mouth again. Snufkin just kept impressing him.

He left when he realized he’d have to share Snufkin, because there wasn’t really enough to go around anymore, and things got dreadfully boring. There were rituals to be followed, prayers to say, and it all reminded the Joxter of how silly this all was. Nature would sustain whether you killed a Snufkin or not, it was simply how Nature was if you know where to look. He had his own thoughts to mull over that had nothing to do with sustenance or sacrifice.

The Joxter had never felt regret before, but with the taste of Snufkin on his tongue and the memory of him in exquisite agony, of him underneath the Joxter, he felt something akin to it now. He could have savored him properly if he’d just known how.

But what was past, was past. He’d simply have to find new ways to entertain himself, or go back to his apple tree and his Mymble and just enjoy the memory. Snufkin really had been absolutely delectable.


End file.
